


What I Would Write for You

by cymyguy



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Hinata Shouyou, First Kiss, First Meetings, Light Angst, M/M, Musician Kageyama Tobio, Pining, Soulmate Song, Soulmates, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29320956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymyguy/pseuds/cymyguy
Summary: He sits in the store for much longer than he intended, willing the fearlessly sweet piano melody to come forth again. It doesn’t. Only once he’s outside, striding toward home in the gathering darkness, does Kageyama realize, with cold horror bubbling up in his gut, that the melody has slipped away from him. He doesn’t remember what it sounded like anymore.How is Kageyama supposed to write, now that he’s heard that? He felt that song, like an ultimate revelation of music. Nothing has gripped him in exactly the way that did. And yet he couldn’t hold onto it in his memory, even though a vast portion of his brain is devoted to music. It wasn’t like heavenly beings singing some large, grand, soul-lifting thing. Kageyama just liked it.If he can’t hear it again, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41
Collections: Kagehina Exchange





	What I Would Write for You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thalia_muse_of_comedy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalia_muse_of_comedy/gifts).



It’s summer break. Kageyama will be starting his third year at Karasuno University, but not until another sweltering month has passed. In the meantime, he’s doing homework.

He is his own taskmaster in this project. He’s set out to write music pieces for different places in Miyagi, to paint out the scene before his eyes, ears, and nose using only piano keys. He’d gotten the idea during the last week of the spring semester, when passing through the lower levels of the arts building after a final. There were art students’ pieces out for exhibition in the hall, and one set of drawings caught his eye, because he recognized the scenes in them as scenes from around Miyagi, where he’s spent his whole life.

He thought, what the artist had done visually, he could do musically. So he’d glanced around before snapping a photo of each of the six drawings, since he didn’t know if he was technically allowed to do that. They’re poor quality pictures, compared to looking at the real drawings, but they’ve been enough for him to work with, in combination with revisiting the scenes in person himself a couple times.

There was one other reason the drawings grabbed him. It’s strange. He knows the places depicted, well enough that he’s familiar with the colors on particular buildings and signs, so he noticed in mere seconds the difference to the real thing. There’s no blue in the drawings. By visiting the sights, he’s confirmed that everything that should be blue, according to the reference, is grey instead. The full range of seasons is represented in the scenes, but in all of them except the sunset piece, the sky is grey. It was jarring at first, but Kageyama doesn’t pretend to understand art; he assumes the artist had their reasons for doing this. But over the summer his curiosity has been growing and growing, to the point that it’s an itch inside him whenever he visits the sites. He tries to stand where it seems the artist would have stood, and look from the same angle, only he considers what’s before him with the best sense he has, the musical one. Still, it bothers him. He thinks the blue is important to getting his own pieces right. Why does the artist just ignore it?

Kageyama has begun to feel sort of like their ghost, haunting along the artist’s faded path through Miyagi, through life. It’s not helped by the fact that he spends his summers in almost total isolation, getting up just in time to see his parents off to work in the morning before sitting himself at the piano for as long as daylight lasts (Taking proper breaks, of course. Personal maintenance is a huge part of success.). The only time he really goes out is for groceries, and to refresh his memory on the scenes from the drawings. When he compares the physical world to the picture on his phone, he feels a longing. Today, he’s at the emptiest four-way intersection in town. In the artist’s portrait, there is a crow sitting on the wire that holds the stoplight, pitch black against the oranges and yellows of early sunset. In Kageyama’s reality, the crow is missing. It’s impossible for him to look on the exact same scene the artist did, even if he’s aligned his footprints perfectly to the lingering imprint of theirs. It makes him feel like he’s chasing, and doomed to never catch up.

He’s finished four pieces, and he likes how they’ve turned out, mostly because he realizes they’re a better depiction of the artist’s vision than what Kageyama actually sees. He likes the way they see things. It’s strange.

Finished with research for the day, he heads up the block to the foothill store he’s been frequenting for mandarins and the occasional popsicle. Even though he deliberately avoids the hottest part of the day, and wears dark colored tank tops, he still gets a sweat circle under his neck and a damp seat on his shorts. The owner has finally stopped threatening him now that he’s proven himself quiet, so he’s allowed to sit at a table inside as he refreshes with his snack. This late, it’s almost always just Kageyama, the owner, and the old-time radio that plays even more old-time music.

“Evening!”

Kageyama turns to see an orange-haired person sticking their head through the doors.

“Any meat buns left?”

“Hot buns in the dead of summer?” the owner grumbles. “We’re all out.” He flicks his open newspaper. “Have a popsicle like that guy.”

The young orange person turns and looks at Kageyama, but he can barely register the look. The radio has just switched tunes, and suddenly it’s not in the background. Even though it’s terribly faint, it’s flooding Kageyama’s whole brain. It’s a string of piano notes, wonderfully wild even as they slow—

“Your—” The redhead steps right up to the table where Kageyama is sitting, dropping his hands onto the surface and leaning down, closer. “Your eyes.”

Kageyama flinches a frown, but he stays more focused on the music, those notes he hears. He can’t grab them, but he’s never wanted to clasp something so safely in his fist as he does right now. What station is this? Are they going to give the name of this song?

“Your eyes are—beautiful!”

Finally he forces some attention to the person in front of him. He doesn’t say anything, only scowls. Who is this guy? What are they saying about his eyes? He tries to focus on interacting properly like a human, but the music swells. _What song_ is playing?

“Um!” The young redhead bows violently, forehead colliding with the table. He yelps and rubs it as he straightens up. “Excuse me! Pardon my—um—interruption! Don’t mind me,” he mutters, and promptly scurries away into the nearest aisle.

Kageyama squints furiously at the radio behind the owner’s shoulder. He’s almost desperate enough to ask him to turn it up, because now the notes have faded down so soft he can barely trace them. This is wonderful, he has never heard anything like this, it makes him feel so _happy_. And yet, it’s downright horrible to listen to, because he would’ve sworn that he wrote this himself, except he is absolutely sure that he didn’t. But it sounds, to his trained ears, to his suddenly fluttering stomach and pounding chest, like something that only could have come from him.

The stupid orange person distracts him again when they come to the counter to buy a, stupidly, orange, frozen treat. Then they leave, and the doors shut, and the song has finished. The radio slips seamlessly into something with tinny guitars, almost as if it were toying with Kageyama the whole time.

He sits in the store for much longer than he intended, willing the fearlessly sweet piano melody to come forth again. It doesn’t. Only once he’s outside, striding toward home in the gathering darkness, does Kageyama realize, with cold horror bubbling up in his gut, that the melody has slipped away from him. He doesn’t remember what it sounded like anymore.

Writing is hopelessly fruitless the next day. He can’t think about the lonely intersection at sunset, only about the Sakanoshita store and that melody he heard, and might never hear again. There is no radio to be found in his parents’ house. He tries some apps, but none of them seem likely to play such a song. He has no idea where to look.

Except the place he heard it before. A single day locked in with his frustration is enough. The next, he heads out early in the morning, back to the foothill store.

How is Kageyama supposed to write, now that he’s heard that? He felt that song, like an ultimate revelation of music. Nothing has gripped him in exactly the way that did. And yet he couldn’t hold onto it in his memory, even though a vast portion of his brain is devoted to music. It wasn’t like heavenly beings singing some large, grand, soul-lifting thing. Kageyama just _liked_ it. The tickling keys in all their up and up—and up—and then down, gently, but not carefully. It felt friendly as if he didn’t know it, but comforting as if he did.

It must be an older piece, not one you would hear in a more uptown business. But it can’t be old enough to be considered a classic, or surely Kageyama would have practiced it before. Surely it would have been his favorite, something he played from the time he was eleven or twelve and never forgot about. He wishes he would have gotten to play it.

If he could remember it, he would go to one of his professors at the university and play it for them, and very likely they would be able to tell within a few measures what piece it was, at the very least the composer. If he can’t hear it again, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

He buys two mandarins and sits at the table in the far chair, where he can see the radio. The clerk and his mother are stocking shelves, so Kageyama is left in peace for a solid hour, but when the tasks turn to dusting and sweeping, the blond man starts to throw him suspicious looks. A piece of Tobio cries out so piteously at the idea of leaving, when the very next song might be the one, but he decides he’ll have to go away for a while.

He walks around town, spotting a few cats lurking in shady areas, and some kids on their bikes heading to a football field. He likes that there isn’t a lot to see or hear here. But maybe that’s only because he’s used to it. He might not mind the city, if he ever lived in one.

He returns to the store, probably sooner than he should, and buys another couple mandarins to keep the workers off his case. His watch spins, the sun moves up into center sky, and dusty string instruments bleed from the radio. Kageyama doesn’t want to go out; it’s hot enough in here, and whenever the doors open he gets blasted by a cloud thick with humidity. The blond clerk’s looks have gone from suspicious to dirty, so he drags himself outside, with one last pleading look at the radio.

He sits under a tree at the empty intersection and tries to think about notes he can actually string together, instead of those ones that are eluding him. He doesn’t take out his phone to consult the drawing, because the glare out here would be bad for his eyes. He watches a single red car pass from behind his sunglasses. He looks up at the leaves over his head, gold-trimmed by the sun, and it occurs to him that maybe for this scene, a guitar would fit better than piano. He’d been set on a piano series, but the thought of guitar seems to click. He thinks he’ll try something out when he goes home. At the least it’ll be a relief to play, without the all-too-amazing song’s doom hanging over him.

He didn’t bring extra sunblock, so he can’t wander too far from the store for too long. He returns once again, purchasing a popsicle this time, trying to discreetly eye the clerk to see how skeptical he’s getting. He gets a single, pointed frown, but then the man goes back to the book he was reading. It’s not like Kageyama is hogging the table; he hasn’t seen anyone else sitting here even once all day. There’s room if someone wanted to, Kageyama won’t object as long as they don’t disrupt his ability to hear the song when it comes back around in the rotation. It will come back, he knows, if he’s patient enough.

When the doors open and another wave of heat washes over him, Kageyama shifts, unsticking his legs from the plastic chair. He looks up, and in comes the young redhead from a couple days ago. He smiles to the clerk with a little bow, followed in by a tiny blond girl who looks visibly wilted.

“What flavor freeze pops do you like, Yach-san?”

The redhead turns toward her, but his eyes land on Kageyama first. His face gets red and he reaches back for his companion’s arm, pulling her behind the nearest shelves in a hurry. Kageyama hardly notices. It’s the song. He hears it again!

He squeezes his eyes shut, locking down his senses in hopes it will be easier to follow its path. It’s terrifically fast, it’s not really a wonder he couldn’t get a good hold on the melody after hearing it only once. It charges. There are sidesteps and detours, there is stalling and struggle, but it has an overall direction that is constant. It moves forward fearlessly, knowing where it’s going, if not how it will get there.

He hears some voices cutting in, but it’s grown so loud suddenly that he doesn’t miss a note. The furious run up to a high double note repeats and repeats dizzyingly, and Kageyama feels like something is trying to bore its way out of his chest. Please, let it keep going, let him grasp it, let him commit the sequence to memory. Let him know this song. He has to make it out with it, he can’t lose it again.

“Ah…Hinata? Is he okay?”

It slows, softens, for just instants, and steals Kageyama’s breath when it bursts forth again—

And it’s gone.

Kageyama jumps up from his chair.

“Oi!”

What kind of station cuts off the songs like that?!

The blond man steps out from behind the counter, crossing his arms. “Is there a problem?”

“Do you know what song that was?” Kageyama blurts.

The man raises an eyebrow. It’s several seconds before he glances back at the radio.

“Not this one, the one that was on right before.”

“Uh, I wasn’t paying much attention,” he says.

Kageyama is about to start humming the tune, but he can’t. Because somehow he’s forgotten it again. He huffs, pushes in his chair and marches out. Not much hope of it coming on again this evening, and probably not even tomorrow. The station has a very hodge-podge lineup.

Of all the song’s qualities, why does one of them have to be elusiveness? He even had a grasp on the melody that time, he was predicting the repetitive portions, and still the instant he could no longer hear it, it was gone. Is he going crazy? Or worse, is his musical sense leaving him? Will he have to switch his major of study?

He chooses to stay home the next day, for two reasons. One, the owner has probably prepared a threatening lecture for him the next time he shows up, and two, he had good fortune last time when he waited a day in between visits. His attempts to write don’t last long, though he makes a new one every couple hours. Mostly he ends up practicing. So the day after that, he sets his mind on practicing only, and has good sessions. If nothing else, then, he can play what others have written and make the best living he can that way.

It’s already past dinner when he heads for Karasuno, this time with his guitar case in hand. There’s a breeze tonight, inconsistent but glorious in those moments it comes. He stops at the empty intersection. Kageyama is stubbornly determined, but his mind is also much clearer than a couple days ago. He sits on the bench in front of a dirt lot, back farther than the artist’s vantage point. He’s still missing the crow, but the fledgling sunset has bursting yellows and blooming orange similar to the one in the drawing.

He never plays like this in public. He’s perfectly comfortable on a stage, with an orchestra or by himself, but he gets prickly feelings when strangers look at him from close range and listen to what is mostly tinkering. It feels similar to being seen in one’s pajamas. But there isn’t a soul around tonight, as he expected, so his hushed start builds quickly into invigorated strumming. And it flows out easily, the tune he uses to play out the scene in front of him. He skips through different bits, each better than the last, and then he cycles through them again, bulking them up and adding bridges into the next bit, and in ten or so minutes he has the rough draft of this piece. It’s always quicker on guitar, but he’s surprised. It’s like it fell right out of the air onto the strings. He plays it through once more in shortened blurps, then puts his instrument away.

If he’s forgotten that by the time he gets home to pen it down, then he’ll know that he’s in real trouble.

Kageyama stalks through the doors at Sakanoshita’s, trying not to arouse any suspicion. He’s just a regular music student, with his guitar, stopping by for something refreshing because it’s hot out. He’s decided he wants a milk drink today, but which kind? He’s bound to draw more attention the longer he stands in the back by the coolers. With a pained face, holding his breath, he reaches in for strawberry even though he’s not sure yet. This will have to do.

He turns down the aisle to go back towards the front, and sees the doors sliding open. And who should they admit, but that orange guy. He greets the owner with a big smile and skips down the first aisle to the freezers, not noticing Kageyama where he’s gawking a few aisles over.

They must be about the same age, so Kageyama wonders if he goes to the university too. They’re not close at all in height, though. The young guy is wearing grass-green shorts and a yellow tank top; paired with his popping orange hair, it’s slightly ridiculous. He’s a walking citrus. The squarish bag slung across his body is covered with dozens of pins and patches and doodles done in marker, and it looks kind of heavy. Kageyama shifts the guitar case in his own hand.

The man turns around, a treat in his fist and a gleam in his eye, and freezes, one foot stopping in midair. He’s spotted Kageyama.

“Oh. You.” His eyes flicker toward the floor, and he mumbles, “Hi.”

Kageyama doesn’t respond. He’s straining, grasping at that thing he hears beyond the guy speaking, because he _swore_ —

The song.

He jerks his head, looking up and down and around wildly. It’s the song, but it sounds so loud, even though the radio is usually in the front of the store.

“Hey, are you ignoring me?!”

He doesn’t see any speakers in the ceiling. Did the shopkeeper finally realize what song he was talking about and turn up the volume?

“Rude!”

Everything else fades into the background as Kageyama’s eyes zero in on the radio behind the counter. He charges down the aisle, skidding around the corner in his rush to the front. Then out of nowhere the redhead slides into his path, and Kageyama knocks smack into him, sending him sprawling onto the counter behind him. He flails and scrambles back to his feet, checking around wildly for other witnesses, before his eyes light on Kageyama, who has backed far away, fumbling for an apology.

“Now you’re trying to cut me in line? What’s your problem?” the redhead shouts in his face, drowning out more precious notes.

“Who’s shouting in here?” The owner barrels around the corner. “If this is a fight take it outside, now!”

Kageyama doesn’t hear what is said next. He inhales sharply and stares past the redhead to the radio, as a second piano comes in.

This one is a newer instrument, it hasn’t been played as much yet. It’s allowing the other, the master of the melody, to lead it. It echoes at first, during the upward climb. Then, when the lead keys burst forth on that wild, pace-defying path that Kageyama does know, he does remember in this moment, the second piano accompanies it with low, still-pounding chords of its own. Its metallic newness hits the soothing richness of the older instrument, like two waves colliding from opposite directions, and sinking together as water, the seamless whole that they are.

Kageyama remembers to blink when orange flashes in front of him. The redhead throws him a fierce scowl and leaves the store with his popsicle.

“Do you know the name of this…song…”

He can’t hear it anymore.

“Why do you keep asking that?” The shopkeeper is giving him a hard look. “Do you just come in here to listen to the radio?”

“N—No. I want to buy this.” He sets down his milk.

“If you cause trouble, I won’t accept your business, because it’s costing me other business.”

“Ah—” The incident with that guy replays in his head. He’s dismayed. “I’m sorry for that. I didn’t mean to cause trouble or upset anyone else.”

He gives a stiff bow, starting to flush.

“It won’t happen again, sir.”

The man slides his milk back over. He’s still eyeing him.

“That a guitar? You play?”

“Um, yes.”

“Is that why you’re so interested in my radio?”

“Well—Do you know that song with the two pianos? It’s—It’s fast, and—” And once again he can’t remember what it’s like.

“Sorry kid, but it’s all jumbled together to me. They don’t play many songs to begin with. I can’t tell the end of one from the beginning of the next.”

He gives Kageyama his change.

“Why don’t you try playing it for someone?” He gestures to Kageyama’s guitar.

Kageyama sighs internally, but nods his understanding.

“You’re welcome back,” the owner says, “For now. But no more messing around in here.”

“Thank you.”

He bows again, and leaves.

Over the next week, when he is _not_ visiting the store, Kageyama has time for lots of things. He has time to be embarrassed about making a scene. The owner is probably telling other customers about him. He has time to be angry at that guy with the orange hair. What he did, racing him up to the counter because he thought Kageyama was trying to beat him, was really stupid. So was getting in the way of someone much bigger than him. They’re lucky he didn’t fly far enough to break anything. And he has time to agonize. He sits at the piano, and stares at the keys. Which ones are they, the ones that make up the song? He wishes for some divine light to gleam over each one in a sequence, so that he can pluck out the basic melody. Why can’t it stick in his head? Why has he only ever heard it in that store? And why only now? He goes there less frequently but still regularly when classes are in session, but he’s never noticed it before.

Why did it have to be so wonderful?

Kageyama knows other people don’t care about music like he does. Other people would marvel at that nice song they heard, would say they wished they knew what it was called, and then they’d forget, and be content to do it. They wouldn’t feel an ache through their whole body, like missing a person they recently became separated from. They wouldn’t play every conceivable cord over and over in cycles, trying to ring any kind of bell in their head. They wouldn’t let it upend the entire order of their life.

Kageyama wouldn’t either, for just a song. Everything is written over and over, in music; the chances are good of coming upon that cord or run or triplet you wished you would have made something of the first time. But this is beyond just a song. It’s more like those siren songs in stories, he realizes. It’s calling him. It’s not that it’s exactly the collection of notes and rhythms he would consider “perfect.” It’s that it’s exactly what he wants to hear, when he hears it. Not that he would never want to listen to anything else again. Just that it speaks to him in the warmest, gentlest, yet most honest way he’s ever heard. Now that he’s heard it, every time he forgets, he feels like he’s been left out in the rain. He hardly knows it, but he misses it when it’s gone.

He’s starting to get suspicious of his sanity.

Eventually he runs out of noodles, so he has to go to Karasuno, where his preferred supermarket is. He doesn’t think it will hurt (anymore than it already does) to stop by Sakanoshita’s. Maybe he’ll hear a bit of the song. That might be all he can hope for the rest of his life.

He’s hauling two bags of groceries from the nearest bus stop and scolding himself for coming out in the heat of the day. His mind really has slipped, and he needs to get it back on track. Suddenly there’s a distraction in front of him. The ginger guy skids in on a bike, stands it up outside Sakanoshita’s and heads for the doors. He’s wearing a short denim skirt, a green t-shirt and dirtied up white sneakers.

Oh no. He’s pretty cute. Good thing Kageyama only realized that now, or an even bigger disaster might have occurred inside the store.  
He stays rooted to his spot on the sidewalk, numbly setting his bags down at his sides. Great. He’s said probably five words to the guy, mostly ignored him completely, made him mad several times, pushed him over a counter—and he’s short and redheaded, tanned, has a handsome smile and a load of ear piercings.

If Kageyama just takes a few steps to the side, he can hide in the shade of this building and avoid meeting him again like this. The owner would probably kick Kageyama right out anyway, if he tried to go in there at the same time as that guy again. No, he definitely shouldn’t go in there now.

It would be really embarrassing, especially after last time. The first thing he’d have to say to him would be an apology. Or, he could _ask_ for the apology, since that guy had been kind of rude, blowing things out of proportion when Kageyama was only a little distracted.

No, he’s definitely not going in.

He should just wait here until he comes out. Then if he sees him, it’ll be from enough of a distance that he won’t be able to say anything, and Kageyama wouldn’t be obligated to apologize. Not that he’s above apologizing. Even if it wasn’t technically his fault. He can manage a sincere apology even if the person is…relatively good-looking. But they don’t even know each other. If it wasn’t for running into him so often at this store, he would just be a stranger Kageyama had slighted once, and he would carry that fact around with him the rest of his life. Is all. That process might be starting right now, for all he knows, this might be the last time he ever sees this guy.

Kageyama lugs his bags across the street as fast as he can. If he meets the guy inside the store, maybe they’ll be within earshot of the owner and Kageyama can clear his name with both of them at once. He’s moments too late. When he reaches the doors, they’re already opening.

“Ah—” The redhead gapes for a few seconds. Then he scowls, putting the tiniest crease between his thin brows. Then, half his mouth curls in a smile, tinged with mischief.

“Hi,” he chirps.

Kageyama bows. But he stiffens out of it too quickly. Is he hearing what he thinks he’s hearing?

The guy passes by him, and Kageyama doesn’t have time to feel the disappointment, as he rushes through the closing doors into the store. He gets a few tinkling notes, and that’s all. The song’s just finished up. Kageyama sighs. He pays for a single mandarin and leaves. Outside, he looks both ways, and sees orange hair bobbing laboriously as the guy rides up the hill on his bike.

That night, when it’s been ten, then fifteen, then too many minutes past his usual sleeping time for him to check anymore, Kageyama jerks up in bed, hit square in the face by one of the most brilliant ideas he’s ever had.

The next time he hears the song, he’ll record it.

The idea’s brilliance diminishes considerably over the next several days, when the song doesn’t play even once on the Sakanoshita radio, despite Kageyama sitting there several hours at a time, several times a day, waiting. He’s brought some papers with him each day, to make it look like he’s studying, or taking notes on some of the other songs that play. The owner, who he finally learns is named Ukai, doesn’t seem to mind this, since Kageyama dishes out cash steadily for mandarins and icy snacks.

He hasn’t gotten sick of the mandarins yet, but he’s very sick of the music. He knows all these songs now, he could plunk any of them out on guitar upon request. But he would more likely refuse the request, because he despises these songs, each and every one of them, for not being the one he _wants_. It seems that while he’s avoiding sitting and going insane at his piano, he’s not really escaping such an end; instead he’ll sit on this plastic chair and look at the flies buzzing against the florescent lights and go insane. He takes to people watching, perking up just as Ukai’s mother does anytime someone enters the store. He tries to guess what they’ll buy, and is always wrong. But if Ukai catches him spying on the counter, he scowls.

“You’ve been here every day this week,” he says one evening, throwing down his magazine. “What are you waiting for?”

“I’m—just bored.”

“Don’t kids wait all school year to be bored for the summer?”

Kageyama doesn’t point out that he’s not really a kid.

“And I’d like to…hear that song again,” he mumbles, trying to sound nonchalant. “I liked it.”

“You never figured that out? Internet couldn’t even tell you?”

Kageyama bites his cheeks to keep from snapping at him. Something has to give, or he really is going to lose it here. Everyone’s always said he has so much promise. He never knew exactly what that meant, but he suspects that if he loses his direction in music, people probably won’t say it anymore.

“Are you sure your sitting here all day doesn’t have something to do with that redhead guy?”

Ukai is probably insinuating something about their apparent animosity, but Kageyama can’t prevent heat from pooling in his cheeks. Before he can answer, the doors slide open on the muggy evening and a group of people come inside.

“You again?”

The redhead steps up to the other side of Kageyama’s table, hands on his hips.

“You don’t work here, do you?”

“No—”

“Do you happen to go to Karasuno University?”

The song is on! Why does this always happen when this guy is here to distract him? Kageyama fumbles with his phone. He hits record and cranes to look around the redhead's group of friends, until they move farther into the store and he can see the radio clearly.

“Oi, Mr. Pretty Eyes!”

Kageyama jabs at the record button, until mercifully the little red dot starts to move along the bottom line. Okay, he’ll get it this time, he can hear it plain as day. He sets his phone on the table.

“Uh—I go to Karasuno University,” Kageyama says, meeting the redhead’s eyes fleetingly before doublechecking his device.

“Me too! I’m in the art department, what about you, what are you studying?”

“Uh—”

He’s waited so long to hear these notes again, and they float against his ears like a blanket covering a chilly evening body. He wants to listen, but he also doesn’t want to come off as rude once again, to the cute guy who is _talking to him_. He still feels red-faced from before.

“I—I’m in music.”

“Oh, that’s cool, do you sing?”

He shakes his head. The barrage of notes runs and runs, high, higher, sweet but fierce. “Piano,” he almost smiles.

“Gwuuuh, that’s so cool! You must be really good!”

Kageyama manages to focus his eyes on him for a few seconds. He hopes this conversation doesn’t get captured in his recording.

And if this guy has talked loud enough to drown out more than a few notes, Kageyama won’t forgive him.

“I’m Hinata Shouyou,” the redhead says.

Kageyama nods. He really loves this part, and it’s so crystal clear tonight, has Ukai been tinkering with the radio—

“Um—Kageyama. I’m Kageyama Tobio.”

Hinata smiles. It’s difficult to look at when the music is already pulling his heart wide open and threatening his face with something very tender. He doesn’t want to come off as the weird kid to this guy.

“Shou-chan, what did you want again—”

Hinata glances toward his friends, then waves at Kageyama as he heads their way.

“I’ll probably see you around!”

He nods dumbly, fingers squeezing tight on the edges of his phone. Hinata looks stupidly good with a ballcap. Kageyama sits in a long moment of bliss as the melody circles him in with his good feelings.

Hinata and his friends come to the counter to pay for their things. Hinata waves at him again as he goes out, a big grin on his face. After the group is gone, the song fades off. Kageyama sits for even longer, before he remembers to stop his recording.

Ukai stands near the doors with his hands on his hips. He looks toward Kageyama.

“It’s going to be storming soon.” He nods toward the street. “I might close up early.”

“Oh.” Kageyama nods. He slips his phone into his pocket, puts his notebook under his arm, and buys one more mandarin for the road.

“Come back again.”

“Okay.”

The sky is thick with clouds and an unsettling hazy orange, not like this mandarin, or Hinata’s hair. Maybe he should study it for a song. Or maybe it would be better as an art piece. He wonders what kind of art Hinata does. Then he remembers the phone in his pocket, and hurries for home, a smile squiggling on his mouth the whole way.

He greets his parents and proceeds to his room. He plugs in his headphones and puts the volume at medium, then hits play on his recording.

What he hears is not what he thought he would.

At first he thinks he made some kind of mistake, didn’t hit the right button or maybe was stopping when he thought he was starting. Or he’s listening to the wrong thing. He flips through his other recordings, though none of the dates match with today; none of them produce what he wants, either.

He can’t hear the song, not even the faintest trace of it. He turns his volume all the way up, then unplugs his headphones and turns it all the way up again, and the video doesn’t produce the song. There are voices, mostly Hinata’s, which he can make out clearly and which confirms this is the conversation from earlier. He can also hear murmurs in the background, of the other people in the store, and he can even hear a fan running.

He puts his headphones back on. A faint tune comes through, and for a second his heart hammers up in his throat. But it’s not the right tune, it’s something entirely different, something they play on the radio an average of three times a day. Guitar, not piano. Not what Kageyama has been hearing. But according to video evidence, that’s what was on the radio at the very time Hinata was talking to him.

That’s impossible.

Now Kageyama is freaked out for real. He gets chills. His stomach lurches. He drops his phone and throws his headphones off.

What is happening. Why isn’t the song on the recording? Why did it record everything but that? How is there a tune on this video that Kageyama wasn’t even able to hear at the time? If that was the actual song that was playing, then the song Kageyama thought he heard must have been inside his head. Has it been in his head this whole time?

What is wrong with him? Has he really lost his mind? Or his hearing? Is he actually _dead_? He’s hearing a song no one else can hear, now he knows why Ukai never knew what he was talking about, why such a song never turned anyone else’s head. No one else hears it. What has happened to him? He could have stumbled into some other dimension where he doesn’t belong. Maybe he shouldn’t have stayed cooped up at home so much.

Is he really even hearing anything at all? Or is he manifesting an ideal on a subconscious level? Maybe it’s a defense mechanism? A piece he could achieve, but never will, so a deeper part of his brain feeds him little bits that he can survive on. But he doesn’t have the capacity to hold onto them. No, now he’s getting too insane. And he’s aware of it, so he’s not actually insane, right?

One more time, Tobio pulls his headphones on and plays the recording from the beginning. Then he stuffs his phone into a desk drawer and gets ready for bed.

He sleeps in fits as rain pings at his window and drums on the roof. He dreams snatches of the melody that doesn’t exist, and when he’s awoken by thunderclaps, he’s glad he doesn’t remember what they sounded like.

Kageyama wanders through town all day the next day, guitar in its case at his side. Everything is too wet to sit on, so he doesn’t even take out his instrument until well in the afternoon when the sun has dried out some benches. There are people out and about, since it’s Saturday, but he doesn’t give a thought to being looked at. Tobio doesn’t know what to do. As usual, when he has no way of dealing with things, he practices.

He barrels through popular riffs, strings together some of Ukai’s radio songs, makes up accompaniments to other things he’s written. He can’t bear to even look at a piano, and if that doesn’t wear off, this will have to be his new go-to. He plays the most technically difficult songs he can pull out of his head. It’s a small relief to know his memory seems to be otherwise undamaged. If he happens to notice that people have paused to listen to him, he finishes his song, then cases his instrument and walks off to another set of blocks. He almost makes it all the way to the university. Maybe he should see a career counselor. Or maybe he should just drop out and start playing on street corners.

He’s angry about the fact that he can’t answer why this stupid thing matters anymore. He doesn’t know why he can’t let it go, and that makes the fact even worse. He hears that song, and just…wants for something. The song is a marvel and delights him in that, it truly does make him happy when he hears it, but at the very same time a sadness drips off his soul, landing and echoing in a hollow place inside.

He never knew he had that hollow place. And now he’s afraid of it. What if it starts to get bigger? Expanding, reaching through him for something to fill it, and not finding what it needs, so it keeps reaching, and reaching…

When it’s early evening, and the sun is finally sinking, starting from its yellow into orange, and he sits down on a stone wall next to a park, he realizes his legs are tired from all the walking. He takes out his guitar, and after warmup, plays the empty intersection song he hasn’t quite finished. Then he carefully plucks out string versions of the other Miyagi songs, one by one. He wishes he had the heart to complete something for the last drawing. He doesn’t take his phone out to look at it, because that will make him feel worse. The art always gave him nice feelings before.

He should have refilled on water a couple hours ago. Sakanoshita’s is only a block away, so though it’s become a symbol of misery, he’ll stop there for health’s sake. He’s coming at the store from the front, when a green bicycle whips in from the direction of the big hill. Kageyama’s step falters. Hinata leaps off his bike and dashes inside.

Kageyama hustles across the street, dropping his case next to the bike before he goes in. Hinata is at the counter, just turning toward Ukai as the clerk emerges from an aisle.

“Meatbuns?” Hinata says. “It’s not that hot today,” he defends.

“Sorry, a baseball team was just here, bought us out.”

“Nngh!” Hinata pulls at his hair.

“Oh.” Ukai is looking at Kageyama now. “You’re later than usual.”

Hinata peeks over his shoulder, apparently embarrassed. Then he spins all the way around.

“Oh, hey Kageyama-kun!”

Kageyama’s hello dies in his throat. It’s impossible. The moment he’s stepped foot in the store, and Hinata is here again, and—

He hears it.

“We’re out of mandarins too, Kageyama. Can I interest either of you in a popsicle?”

“Sure! Hey, I’ll buy you one Kageyama, what flavor do you like?”

Two pianos, so impossibly fast, one climbing high, the other driving in the middle, new and old tones perfectly balanced. Swirling at his ears, down through his body, back up. His hollow place expands as it’s filled to the brim, it opens and opens and still can’t hold the breadth of that beautiful song.

“Kageyamaaaa, I’ll pick for you if you don’t speak up.”

No.

No. He tries to tear away from its grip on him. It’s all in his head, after all. Not real. Not important.

“…Kageyama-kun. Kageyama-san!”

“Um—”

He shakes his head, attempting to clear it.

“No?” Hinata cocks his head at him.

“Um—You don’t need to buy me something—”

“Well I know I don’t _need_ to, I just will, okay? My treat!”

“I’ll buy you something, then,” Kageyama says.

It’s terribly distracting, even when he’s actively fighting instead of succumbing. He thinks it’s clearer than he’s ever heard it, almost like it’s spiting him.

“What?” Hinata laughs. “No, then I wouldn’t be treating you at all!”

Kageyama stares at the traces of laughter on that stupid, wonderful handsome face as the music swells. It roars to a new height, flooding his being, shining like a light right through him. He realizes his eyes are brimming with tears. No! Why is this happening! He doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t care if he forgets it. He doesn’t want to hear it ever again. Hinata, the person standing in front of him, is _real_ , and this _isn’t_ , it’s just a stupid _song_!

But, Kageyama has a gift. Now, a curse.

It’s never a stupid song. Not to him.

“So do you live close by here, Kageyama? You come here an awful lot. Are you sure you don’t work here? Although you’d be pretty bad at it, you’re spacing out all the time—”

Kageyama looks fleetingly at the radio. He makes eye contact with Ukai, who glances at the radio himself, then frowns harder at Kageyama.

“Do you have a job,” the redhead ponders, “Or are you just focusing on your studies?”

“Hinata—”

“I deliver food for—Wait—Are you okay, Kageyama?”

“Hinata, shut up! For a second—”

In a few moments, the music softens, so he can barely trace it. His eyes focus back on Hinata. Who is scowling at him. Now glaring.

He huffs. “You know what,” he says, “You’re actually really rude. If you don’t want to talk to me, just quit showing up here. Because in case you haven’t noticed, I like this store! So if you don’t want to see me, don’t come in here anymore!”

The music hits its crescendo as Hinata stalks past him. Kageyama turns and watches the doors close between them. And like a switch coming down, the song disappears.

Like a switch. Oh _god_.

It’s the redhead. Every time Kageyama heard the song, Hinata was there; the montage flashes behind his eyes in nanoseconds. Every single time, Hinata came in, and as soon as he took notice of Kageyama—and then, the _second_ he left—

Kageyama sprints at the doors. They slide open just in time. He leaves his guitar abandoned on the sidewalk and charges for the hill. Hinata has already hauled halfway up on his bike.

The song really was in Kageyama’s head this whole time. But it’s _Hinata’s_ song. It is, Kageyama can feel it, without evening knowing Hinata he knows it pulses with his energy, it plays his hair and his eyes and his freckles and that laugh. Kageyama still doesn’t know how he can hear it, but—

“Hinata!”

Hinata turns his head. His scowl becomes visible even from this distance, and he puts his head down and pedals harder. And the song floats down the hill, back to Kageyama.

It’s calling him.

Kageyama was worn out, but there’s a force beyond his own body’s wrenching him up this hill. He reaches the peak just moments after Hinata, and before his bike has shot forward on new momentum, heading back through town, Kageyama stretches out and snatches Hinata’s t-shirt. The bike jolts out from under him and falls over.

“My bike!”

Kageyama hastily lets go as Hinata whirls on him.

“What? What do you want?”

Hinata has the sleeves rolled up on his white t-shirt, and his green cap is on backwards today. When Kageyama grabs him by the shoulders, part of him is thinking _what_ is he thinking, he can’t just do something like this, this guy who offered to treat him to a popsicle is so cute he wants to shake it out of him, someone help him—But Hinata’s music fills him with courage in an impossibly pure form, and instead of letting go and letting him get back on his bike and letting him disappear forever from Kageyama’s life, he surges down and kisses Hinata.

The music bursts in his head like his ears just popped. It chimes and chirps and cheers, it runs up and down and hits all the right chords, dancing across Kageyama’s heart like it knows a passcode sequence. Apparently it does, because it pries him apart and bathes him in warmth. He feels like a spaceship vibrating before takeoff, until Hinata’s arms come around his neck, and he feels like he won’t ever be going anywhere except closer to him. Air drags through his lungs as his lips drag against Hinata’s. And this time, he feels the way it latches on inside him. Even if he can’t remember it on the surface, he’s not going to lose it anymore. It’s here.

He wants to hear the song in its entirety, and it would be of no consequence to him to stand here kissing all evening. It’s Hinata who pushes away, with an obnoxious peel of laughter.

“You are such a weird guy! I knew you liked me!”

Kageyama’s brow furrows. “What?”

“You kept waiting around the store, seeing if I’d show up, right?”

“No—No I didn’t! It was—It was because of—the music.”

“Music? You mean that old radio Ukai has?”

“No, not that music, it was—Do you hear anything in your head when you’re around me?” he blurts.

“Huh?” He cocks his head. “Kageyama, are you really okay? You’ve kind of seemed like a zombie every time I’ve met you, but I was never sure if that was just what you were like, but I don’t know, you seem kind of…”

Like the weird music guy, yes, he knows. He _is_ that guy, and Hinata is a popular, outgoing art guy. Do they even speak the same language?

“It’s just—When I—Whenever you were around, at the store,” Kageyama fumbles, “I heard—a piano song in my head. It wasn’t on the radio, but I thought it was at first, but then no one else could hear it—And I heard it every time I saw you—”

His face starts to burn in earnest.

“And I just realized right now that it was coming from you, kind of. When you left, I couldn’t hear it anymore.”

“A—song?” Hinata says. “What kind of song? Why would I sound like a song to you in your head?”

“I don’t know!” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how I can hear it. I don’t…know.”

Hinata is just going to think he’s crazy, the more he tries to explain. He’ll never understand this. But if Kageyama puts it aside, quickly, maybe he can still at least become friends with Hinata, or something. Yeah, he should just pretend this isn’t about the song.

“So every time we’ve met,” Hinata says slowly, “You’ve heard a song in your head? Even the first time?”

“Yeah. When you were saying I had—pre—pretty eyes.”

“Ah, haha—” Hinata rubs the back of his neck. “So you do remember me saying that…”

All at once his smile falls. His mouth opens, and he looks up at Kageyama with big, shiny eyes. Then he grabs his face and presses their foreheads together. Kageyama stares back as Hinata stares at him. Um, what—

“Kageyama,” he says firmly. “What color are your eyes?”

 _Now_ what’s going on?

“…Blue.”

Hinata lights up, like the stars in the navy night sky if a button could turn them all on at once. Then he lets go of him, and slings his bag from his body onto the ground. He crouches down and starts digging through it.

“Remember how I told you I’m an art student?”

“Yes…”

Hinata stands up, flips open a sketchbook and waves it in Kageyama’s face.

“I didn’t used to use any blue in any of my art. You know why? Because I couldn’t see it.”

Kageyama glances from the drawing to Hinata, and back again.

“I’ve always seen shades of blue as shades of gray. People have been trying to describe blue to me my whole life, but it’s always been gray in my eyes, even from the time I was little. My mom thought I must have a rare form of colorblindness, so all this time I’ve thought that too. So I’ve never used blue because I never knew what it actually looked like!”

It’s just now that Kageyama notices the signature in the bottom corner of one of the drawings Hinata’s flipped to. ‘Syoyo,’ with a smiley face. He stiffens.

“Hinata!”

“What?!”

Kageyama digs out his phone. He shoves the screen at Hinata’s face.

“Is this your art?!”

Hinata’s jaw drops.

“Hey! Where did you see that at? Is this a photo?”

“I saw it in the hallway at school,” Kageyama says. “I didn’t know who drew them.”

“Those are mine,” Hinata says, wide-eyed at him.

“Oh.” He’s conscious of his blush again. “Good.”

“Did you notice how there was no blue?” Hinata ventures.

“Yeah.”

“Well, okay, this is gonna sound really crazy, even more crazy than that song you were talking about. But a few weeks ago, I was suddenly able to see blue, and I thought I was cured and got really excited. I walked out of the store at Sakanoshita’s, and the sky didn’t look the same, and then I realized! It was blue! It was the most amazing thing ever!”

Hinata hops on his feet and throws his arms wide.

“Then I got super pumped and started using it in my drawing and painting! See?” He shows Kageyama his own phone, flipping through a bunch of digital art pieces saturated with different tones of blue. “Blue is such an amazing color, it’s my favorite now! I didn’t even have any blue shirts or anything before. I’ve never _seen_ anything that’s blue before, it’s like—Gwaaaaah! A whole new world! There’s blue all over Miyagi and I never saw it that way before—”

Kageyama can’t help smiling. Hinata’s joyful voice is sort of a music itself.

“But, I guess I’ve been too excited, so I never realized,” Hinata says, scratching his head and shifting on his feet, “Until right now. That day I left Sakanoshita’s, and the sky was blue, that was the same day I first saw you. And—your eyes were blue.”

Kageyama stops smiling.

“I didn’t realize what they were, right then. But that was the very first time I was able to see blue. Your eyes _were_ beautiful to me, all I knew was that I’d never seen anything like that. But it makes sense now, that after seeing them, then I could see blue everywhere else too. I’m sure you were the reason!”

So the song he hears, and the blue Hinata sees, are sort of the same thing? What does that make them?

It makes them understood to each other, and for now, that’s more than enough for Kageyama.

“So, the song that you hear,” Hinata says, “Is it a nice song?”

He puts his hands behind his back, looking a little shy. Kageyama nods to the question.

“What’s it like?”

“I can’t—” The song tingles on his ears again, just a soft twinkle of it. “I can’t describe it.”

“Could you play it? That would be the easiest way to explain. You said it was a piano song, right?”

Kageyama shakes his head. “I don’t think I could.”

“Why, is it too hard? But I thought you were really really good?”

He shakes his head, scowling just a little. “It’s—just not meant to be played.”

Hinata looks skeptical. But then he smiles.

“Well, maybe you could play me something else. Sometime. I think I’ve already heard you play, I’ve been to some of the university’s concerts and stuff. And you played for the musical in the spring, didn’t you?”

Kageyama nods, a little surprised.

“Or you could just let me treat you at the store,” Hinata shrugs, smirking a little.

Both options sound fine. Good, they sound good.

“I wrote pieces based on your drawings,” he says, brandishing his phone. “I’ll show you, once I’ve finished.”

“You did?! That’s so cool Kageyama-kun! No one’s ever made music that goes with my art before.”

“This is the one I still have left to make something for.” Kageyama shows him the drawing. The site isn’t too far from here. “I was going to go there now, maybe, to look at it again—”

“Let’s go together! But I’m hungry, I need snacks first, so let’s go back to Ukai’s.”

“Dumbass, didn’t you eat a proper dinner?”

He sticks out his tongue. “Did you? You were going to the store too.”

Kageyama realizes he didn’t have dinner at all, and maybe not even lunch. The moment he becomes aware, his stomach growls its discontent. Hinata laughs heartily.

“I’ll treat you to dinner, then.” He grins, and winks.

Hinata grabs his bike while Kageyama is pulling himself together.

“Hey,” Kageyama says when they’ve started walking, “Do you have any sketches for these pieces? It would help with my writing, if I could borrow them and see the process.”

“Oh yeah, I have a bunch since it was for a school project. I’ll find them for you.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, though it will probably doom him to see the process behind the art he’s so fond of, especially now that he knows the hand it’s come from.

“Hey, Kageyama.”

Hinata meets his turning head with a kiss on the lips, then swings his leg over his bike and kicks off down the hill.

“Race you!”

“D—Dumbass! Hey!”

Kageyama’s hungry and tired, _and_ he’s an adult. He’s not chasing Hinata through town. But then Hinata looks back, eyes laughing, and his song rains down on Kageyama like a cooling summer storm, and he knows he already is, and always will be, doomed to chase after him.


End file.
